The Widow
by elbafo
Summary: What will be devastating about series 4? Possibly this. Post-HLV. A new villain, or an old foe? A girl from the past or a new flame? Kid/teenlock in flashbacks. Sherlock-OC romance, of sorts. UPDATE Sept 2015 : Won't be updated in the foreseeable future while I work on my other multi-chapters. Sorry!
1. Chapter 1

**Chapter 1**

_**London, Present Day**_

"Did you kill him?"

She asked him that question every time she saw him, the challenge in her eyes daring him to give her the answer she wanted to hear. Or was it?

"No," Sherlock replied, his stock standard response each and every time.

Clearly it was time to leave. The tension in the room was mounting, as it usually did. Sherlock felt as if he were stuck in some kind of time vortex, where the same scene was played out over and over.

Wearily he sat up, swung his legs to the floor, and reached down to retrieve his boxers, the last item of clothing to be discarded. All he had to do was make his way over to her bedroom door, and he could easily dress himself by picking up each clothing item in the reverse order in which he had disrobed.

She did not disappoint with her next question, the one that always followed the first.

"Did Crofty?"

Sherlock couldn't help but sigh anyway. Instead of answering with his usual, "I dunno," accompanied by an indifferent shrug, he said, "You know, I don't think Mycroft enjoys that nickname any more than I appreciate you calling me Locky."

"That's too bad. They're the only names I knew you both by."

Sherlock rose from the bed as he drew on his boxers. One corner of his mouth quirked in a smile as he looked back at her said, "To be fair, you were only seven, and something of an idiot."

Her face brightened in a smile, and Sherlock momentarily forgot to be annoyed with her and this whole scenario.

"Such fond memories," she said wistfully. "You calling me an idiot and Crofty telling me I was too stupid to hang around you both. Actually, he thought _you_ were an idiot as well."

Sherlock tutted and stooped to pick up his trousers. "He was a pompous arse at seventeen," he muttered darkly. "And middle-age has only made him worse."

"Well, you're both saints compared to Monty," she all but whispered.

Sherlock drew on his trousers without looking back at her. He had to end this nonsense now. It was all over and they had to move forward.

"This is the last time I'll be coming here," he said without turning around, and hoping the gravity in his tone was enough to convey his message this time.

He heard her choke back a sob and raised his eyes to the heavens. He continued in his progression toward the door. His shirt was next, and he hastened to slip his arms into the sleeves before pulling open her bedroom door. His jacket, scarf and overcoat were waiting for him in her living room. On stepping over the threshold from her carpeted bedroom to the cold tiles of the hallway, Sherlock realised he'd forgotten his shoes. They had been sort of discarded with his trousers and kicked fuck knows where—under the bed, most probably.

Sherlock spied them there, and reluctantly sat down on the bed by her legs, bending to retrieve his wayward shoes and socks.

She sat up and delicately wiped away her tears.

"I just want to know if he's dead or not."

Sherlock clenched his jaw before answering. "He's not here, why does it matter?"

She propped herself against the headboard and drew her legs in to hug her knees. She spoke in a voice considerably calmer than before. "I want to know whether or not I can check the little box marked 'widow' on the next form I fill out."

Sherlock waited a beat before answering. She always had this way of making jokes in the middle of a serious discussion. "Because there's no checkbox for adulterers?" he countered.

She reached out and nudged Sherlock's hip with her foot. "Shut up," she said playfully. "You've had sex with me four times now. You're hardly an innocent in all of this."

Sherlock's stomach roiled in disgust and disappointment in himself. He slipped on his second shoe and quickly stood. He still had his shirt buttons to fasten, a task he would normally attend to with a certain amount of dexterity, however this time he found himself fumbling.

"Well, the first time was because I thought we were going to be executed the next morning. Not really circumstances people normally find themselves under."

"And the second time?"

Sherlock glanced back at her as he finished with his buttons. "Out of relief that we weren't executed. And the third time because you lied to me and said you were being stalked."

"I _was_ being stalked."

"And obviously I fell for the ruse again tonight."

"I _am_ being stalked."

Sherlock began tucking in his shirt. He redirected his gaze to the young woman on the bed, and hoped his expression was sufficiently icy. "I won't fall for it a third time. You should familiarise yourself with a little tale called, 'The Boy Who Cried Wolf.' Don't contact me again."

"I know someone's out there," she retorted, her own gaze unfaltering. "What if it's Monty?"

"It's not."

"So he _is_ dead."

"I didn't say that."

They locked eyes for a couple of seconds before her face fell and she looked away. Sherlock saw this as an opportunity to leave.

He strode out of her bedroom and along the short hallway to her tiny living area where he had left the rest of his clothing earlier. Sherlock had slipped on his jacket and was winding his scarf around his neck when she appeared at the entrance to the hallway wrapped in her dressing gown.

"Can I visit you in Baker Street?" she asked.

Sherlock furrowed his brow in irritation. "The whole notion of _don't contact me_ includes coming to Baker Street."

"I want to offer my condolences to John," she said, her eyes welling with tears again.

Sherlock turned from her, and occupied himself with retrieving his coat from her sofa. He swallowed the lump in his throat and said, "That's... that's not a good idea right now."

"Does he hate me?"

There was that emotion in her voice again, the one that tugged at Sherlock's heartstrings, and he hated himself for it.

"John hates everyone and everything at the moment."

"I want to say I'm sorry."

Sherlock donned his coat, and resorted to his default manner with her: irritation. It felt safer that way. Plus it was easy to switch; she kept saying stupid things.

"Why do you keep thinking it's your fault?"

She folded her arms defensively, and averted her eyes once more.

"Because I knew what he was like. I knew him better than anyone else. He was the most horrid man on earth—"

"You married him," Sherlock muttered.

"You know he blackmailed me into it."

Sherlock glared at her accusingly. Perhaps she could have prevented it after all. "So why didn't you call me? Or Mycroft?"

"Australia feels so far away from the rest of the world, and Monty kept such tight control over who I could contact. You would've been the last people he'd have let me speak to. But I thought he was planning a reunion. If I had known what he was plotting to do—"

"You would've what?" Sherlock hated hypotheticals, and this discussion was pointless.

"Stabbed him in the heart," she said quietly.

Sherlock tried to quell the rage that was slowly bubbling inside him. He hated being around her these days, yet he couldn't stay away whenever she called.

But she kept bringing it up—if only this, if only that.

"There is no point," he said, his voice rasping with emotion. "You saying sorry to John won't bring back Mary and..."

He couldn't continue, because he could never say her name out loud.

_Have fun not getting involved_, _Sherlock_, Mycroft had said once upon a time. How he wished he could make that true.

Sherlock exhaled deeply, and shut his eyes briefly before saying, "I have to go."

He looked over to her, and was disappointed to find her silently crying. She angrily wiped the tears away and slowly approached Sherlock.

"Locky—"

Sherlock interrupted her with a death stare.

"Sherlock," she said, correcting herself. "Please don't cut me off. You and Crofty are the only family I have left."

"We're not family," Sherlock stated, his eyes darkening in anger. "Altamont Holmes ceased being our brother the day Mycroft got him banished to Australia. Don't contact me again."

:::

* * *

**Author's note:**

Lots of little post-HLV ideas I've had floating around my head, mostly about 'The Other One,' and they all came together in this. I didn't want to use the popular 'Sherrinford' for the other brother's name, so I chose the name writers usually pick for Sherlock's undercover name, Altamont, since ACD used it in His Last Bow. I also like how it's Sir Arthur's father's middle name, plus I could shorten it to 'Monty.'

Thanks for reading and indulging me. Reviews equal love!


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

_**The Home Counties, during the summer of 1990**_

Hand over hand, one more reach and he was there. Sherlock leant against the thickest limb and proudly took stock of his various cuts and grazes. He was especially impressed with the new tear in his good shirt that Mycroft had made him wear. The warm summer breeze gently rustled the leaves on the oak, his oak, the sentry outside his bedroom window.

Mummy will probably make him have a bath, with the water as scalding as he could stand, to cleanse every last bit of mischief out of him, not to mention the dirt that had become like a second layer of skin to him this summer.

Sherlock brooded. If Altamont could get out of having to entertain their summer holiday visitors, why couldn't he? Not everyone wanted to wear fake smiles and receive smoochy kisses on the cheek just to ingratiate themselves into the company of complete strangers as their eldest brother did.

Sherlock may not have been in possession of a first class bow, nor the compulsion to hunt and maim defenceless rabbits, but he could've had his own fun by the river rather than accompanying Altamont to the woods. Instead he was stuck at home, with ill-fitting cousins and Mummy's line dancing friend and_ her_ family.

"Sherlock!"

Mycroft's fat voice floated through Sherlock's open bedroom window as the pompous teen poked his head into the ten-year-old boy's room. Sherlock knew he was being summoned downstairs in a bid to have him socialise with the other children. Sherlock opened his window whenever he felt the need to climb the oak, hoping that one day the branch that grew nearest his window would enable him to scuttle out that way without having to leave the house via the doors downstairs. Today was not such a day, for the branch didn't quite reach. He had to sneak out while everyone else was having morning tea in their finest clothes, and ascend the tree in a conventional—that is, _boring_—manner.

Who was Mycroft kidding, Sherlock thought. He knew Mycroft only pretended to like other people these days because he had discovered that everybody had their usefulness. It was up to the older teenager to discover just how he could acquire their services.

"Sherlock!"

Mycroft's voice moved to the front of the house, and Sherlock breathed a sigh of relief. Tugging at a length of rope at his feet, he hoisted a pair of gardening shears into the tree with him. It was his intention to trim some of the thicker canopy so that he created a sort of spy hole. He would be able to see if anyone was approaching, then he could move to his hiding spot on a particularly precarious branch a metre above his usual comfortable perch, and remain hidden as they passed by beneath him.

He snipped off the first redundant piece of foliage and watched as the small branch dropped through the lower limbs of the oak.

"Ow. Hey!" an irritating girlish voice floated back up to him.

Sherlock's heart sank. He was sprung before he had barely started!

The owner of the voice came into view against the trunk of the tree below. A pair of curious eyes peered up at Sherlock, and Sherlock stared back in relief. It wasn't one of his imbecile cousins then, just the line dancing lady's daughter. Grace, Faith, or Hope, he thought, recalling that it was some monosyllabic name.

He found her particularly amusing, for a seven year old, although a tiny bit stupid. She thought Sherlock was a knight because she had misheard his name, and had subsequently followed him around earlier in the day asking if they could make weapons and have a sword fight.

"Are you up there, Sir Lock?"

Sherlock leant forward and peered down, still clutching the gardening shears in his hand.

"Go away," he said. "It's too dangerous here."

Instead of scampering away like he wanted her to, she remained rooted to the spot.

"Is that a sword?" she asked, taking in the blades of the shears in Sherlock's hand, her eyes widening in admiration.

"Yes, now go away before you get hurt."

"Are you fighting dragons?" she asked in equal reverence.

Sherlock sighed and rolled his eyes.

"Dragons don't..." He wanted to say 'exist' but thought of a better strategy. "Yes, I am, so go away before the dragon breathes fire on you."

The lie backfired on Sherlock, and he realised this a little too late.

"Can I help you fight it?"

Sherlock leant his head back against the thick branch behind him. His hopes for a solitary couple of weeks were dashed because of his parents and their stupid social calendar. The busy-ness and ever presence of the rest of the boarding school population during the school term only served to heighten Sherlock's social anxiety, so summer holidays were a welcome relief. His cousins, who only visited them for a few days, were manageable, and easily ignored, however, this year his parents were playing host to a family whose mother had been best friends with Mummy in primary school. They had met up again when both sets of parents attended a line dancing convention. They had one daughter, and she had quickly adopted Sherlock as her medieval hero.

"You don't have a sword," Sherlock said pointedly.

"I can make one," she replied, eagerly searching her immediate vicinity for a suitable candidate.

Sherlock didn't realise he had inadvertently aided the girl in the provision of a knight's sword when he had commenced trimming the oak tree.

"Found one!" she gleefully declared, seizing the cut branch from the lawn.

She set about breaking off the smaller branches and leaves, then swished the makeshift sword in the air a couple of times for good measure. Once she'd finished putting her sword through its test run, she repositioned herself at the base of the oak and announced, "I'm ready. How do I climb up?"

"You're too late," Sherlock said, rapidly losing interest in the theatrics. "The dragon flew away."

"You're only playing pretend. Let's start a new game when I get up there as well. How do you get up there?"

Sherlock took offence at being told he was _playing pretend_. He hadn't _played pretend_ since he was eight. Playing pretend was for babies and morons.

"Go away. I don't want to play with idiots," he told her.

From his perch above her, Sherlock could see her shoulders droop, and he rolled his eyes in anticipation of noisy tears. Instead she looked up defiantly and said, "I'm not an idiot! I can write all my names, every one, _and _count to two billion. You're not very nice, and you're not allowed to be a knight anymore. Knights are supposed to be nice to everyone."

"Good. I never said I was a stupid knight," Sherlock retorted, almost laughing at the supposed punishment.

"And you can't be called Sir Lock either," she added, pointing up at Sherlock with her sword-stick. "You have to be Lock. Just stupid, mean Lock!"

"Okay, whatever you say."

Sherlock watched as she practised swishing her sword around some more below him. When she moved away from the trunk in order to produce wider arcs, Sherlock turned his attention back to the task at hand. She probably wouldn't go away now that she had a weapon, he thought, so he may as well ignore her and continue in his own endeavours.

The young boy was lost in his decision-making over which branch to cut next that wouldn't produce too wide a gap in the canopy, when he heard a low chuckle of someone approaching the tree from across the yard. At the same time, he could still hear the slicing of a makeshift sword through the air and the keen grunts of a wannabe-knight just out of sight below.

"Hello Dunbar girl. Want to see a cute bunny rabbit?"

Sherlock squatted on his haunches so he could peer through the leaves at the owner of the voice he knew only too well. He could see his brother Altamont cradling a rabbit in his arms, and gently stroking its back as the little girl cautiously approached him.

A knot grew and further twisted itself in Sherlock's gut when he saw the smile on his older brother's face. He knew that false expression. It usually meant Sherlock was about to be humiliated or belittled. He froze on his perch, not daring to give away his presence, but he was too fascinated to find out what cruel trick the teen was going to pull on their visitor for him to look away.

"Is it sleeping?" she asked, tentatively reaching out a hand in order to pet it.

"No it's dead," Altamont replied casually, grabbing the rabbit by the ears and holding it out so that it hung limply before him.

The piercing scream that followed had Sherlock immediately clamp his hands over his ears, and he stared wide-eyed at not only the gleeful expression his brother now wore, but at the long slit in the small mammal's belly where intestines threatened to spill to the ground.

"Aw, don't you want to pat it anymore?" Altamont asked in mock disappointment.

The screaming came nearer as the Dunbar girl made for the sanctity of the tree trunk. She'd dropped her sword along the way and stood with her back pressed up against the rough bark. Sherlock felt for her, he really did. Not due to the horrors of the rabbit—it's lifeless body didn't really bother him—but because once Altamont chose you as his target, he wouldn't stop until your head spun in confusion at whatever he was telling you about yourself, or your heart hurt because he revealed in a particularly insightful way what the rest of the world thought of you.

But Sherlock wanted the screaming to stop, and part of him didn't like the girl being upset, not when she had been content to play near Sherlock for a while, even though he had said mean things to her. It was the small comfort of nearby companionship that had him allow her to continue her play fighting underneath the oak.

With his heart hammering in his chest for whatever psychological assault would be inflicted upon him, Sherlock steeled himself to jump down from the tree and tell Altamont to piss off. His plan was that simple and potentially that stupid. Hopefully it would distract his brother long enough for the girl to run away. But sacrificing himself for the sake of another was not something Sherlock had ever experienced before. His muscles tensed in anticipation for the plummet to the ground.

"Grace!" a woman's voice called from the other side of the house, only just audible above the constant screaming. "Gracie?" the concerned voice yelled again, a tiny bit closer this time.

Sherlock had made this jump before, and he knew he could manage it without injury, so he swiftly pushed off from the tree before he thought twice about it. In that same instant, Altamont had dropped the rabbit, and sprinted in the opposite direction to the sound of the concerned parents rounding the corner of the house.

"It's okay," Sherlock said, largely out of breath, but relieved that Altamont had fled before he saw Sherlock land behind him. "It's dead, so it can't hurt you." He knelt beside the carcass and looked up at Grace, giving her what he hoped was a reassuring expression. The screaming stopped abruptly, but Sherlock was startled by the sound of a heavy object falling beside him, stabbing the earth with it's deadly blades. The garden shears!

Grace stared wide-eyed at the fallen weapon, one tear still glistening on her cheek.

"Can you fix it?" she asked, redirecting her gaze to the deceased bunny.

Sherlock opened his mouth to reiterate that it was in fact an ex-bunny when he was suddenly seized by his shirt collar and hauled roughly to his feet.

"Sherlock! You hideous monster!" Mycroft's voice hissed.

There was a flurry of adults around them, and the young Grace Dunbar was scooped up by her mother as the remaining parents stared in horror at the dead rabbit, its stomach cut open and a sharp gardening implement standing beside it, like an unfortunate scapegoat.

:::

"What do you want, Miss Dunbar?" Mycroft asked in a tired voice, of the small sprite who had emerged in the doorway of the study.

Sherlock looked up from his curled position on a small sofa, where he had been studying _Gray's Anatomy_.

"I'm not Miss Dunbar," she protested, slowly moving forward into the room.

"What are you then?" Mycroft asked, raising an eyebrow impatiently. The seventeen year old may have slimed his way into the hearts of the adults—his aunt and uncle, and his parents' friends, but having them entrust their precious offspring to him while they drank themselves into an oblivion at some shallow charity-do was not Mycroft's idea of a peaceful night at home.

"I'm Grace," she replied, pulling herself up a little taller. "Grace Elizabeth Bernadette Dunbar. And Mummy calls me Gracie."

"Why on earth would she do that?" Mycroft asked in distaste. Making small-talk with children was not the diplomat-in-waiting's strong suit.

"Mummy said if you like someone, you can add 'e' to their name."

"Must you?" Mycroft sighed. "And anyway, what do you want? Is the movie finished?"

Mycroft had put the rest of the small children into a guest room, and had them watching a Disney movie before bedtime.

"No. I don't like princess movies. They sing too much. I want to make a new sword with Locky." Her eyes flickered over to the boy on the sofa who endeavoured to hide his face behind the thick medical text.

Mycroft could barely hide his smirk as he replied, "_Locky _is having time out for that hideous trick he pulled on you."

"It wasn't Locky. It was the Older Mont."

Mycroft frowned at her revelation. "The older what?"

"The Older Mont," she repeated.

"She means Altamont," Sherlock replied from behind the pages. Sherlock lowered his book, and pulled himself to a sitting position. "She's got all of our names wrong," he explained, speaking to Mycroft as if Grace wasn't there. "She thinks your name's Croft. Mummy introduced you to everyone as _her _Croft," Sherlock said, chuckling, recalling that Mrs Holmes had introduced all her sons to their visitors, putting an arm around her eldest and saying proudly, "And this is _My_croft."

Mycroft rolled his eyes.

"It _was_ the Older Mont," Grace said again, not quite understanding the reason behind Sherlock's mirth.

Sherlock dumped the book down on the sofa beside him and rose saying, "Can I go to bed now?"

Mycroft fixed Sherlock with beady eyes and said, "Sherlock, if it really was Altamont, there is no need for you to take the blame."

Sherlock threw a quick glance in Grace's direction and muttered, "I'm tired now."

Mycroft sighed wearily, the weight of familial responsibility taking its toll on shoulders far too young.

"You know, Sherlock, the punishment Mummy could dish out to our brother far exceeds any threats he may make to you. You should never cover up for him."

Sherlock clenched his jaw and his fists at the same time. Thus far any punishment Mummy had dished out to Altamont had not diminished the amount of bullying the thirteen year old had inflicted on his younger brother.

"I'm going to my room," he said again, and brushed past Grace on his way to the door.

Mycroft sighed again loudly behind him. "Then please escort Miss Dunbar back to the guestroom on your way."

Sherlock rolled his eyes at the request but kept heading through the door, detecting movement behind him and assuming Grace was now tagging along once more.

"Can you help me make a sword tomorrow?" Grace asked, skipping along now and again in an effort to keep up with Sherlock's swift stride.

"No!" he shot back.

He heard Grace rush up to him and a small hand tugged at his. Sherlock stopped and turned around, gently pulling his hand out of her grasp.

Her eyes were huge and glistening with tears once more. "The Older Mont is scary," she said. "But you scared him when you jumped out of the tree with your magic sword. You were really brave. Can you help me make a sword so I can be brave too?"

Sherlock's own eyes widened in incredulity. In the stress of the situation, young Miss Dunbar had recalled the events of the afternoon in the wrong sequence. But she had called him _brave_, and that had never been a word Sherlock had associated with himself in the presence of his older brother.

He drew in a deep breath and slowly exhaled.

"Okay. I'll help you make a sword. But if Altamont scares you again, you can—"

"—stab him in the heart," Grace finished in a quiet but fierce determination.

:::

* * *

**Author's Note:**

I've put the sub-heading 'London, Present Day' onto Chapter 1, to differentiate it from the period and location of this one.

This is the first time I've written out a full narrative of Sherlock as a child. Hope it was okay!


End file.
